A galaxy, maybe, I said once to a pitcher in Annapolis, ceramic the swirled ink colors of deep space − or sea − neither place I've been or will likely be, though both throw into sharp relief the hues of what's more familiar: a highway-side prairie, a garter snake, house- fly, fallen weather-threaded maple […]
What is it about my sunbathing knee that draws the damselfly − the sheen of sun, the faceted near flat landing; or my still hand, either left, or right, above, praising the weather of wood grain and how copper freckles are made by an absence of impatience and a taste for waiting, for mindlessness − […]
…If the world knew how the light bulb loved the socket then we would all be better off. –Matthew Dickman, "Love" − Or how the needle adores the vinyl right all up in its groove, how the laser's crazy for the spinning disc, and the guitar string pulls at the pinch of the pick. […]
Today, I get what I measure: the word I woke to, a day that starts without me. Outside, amongst heady warming blaze- bursts of mum, antiseptic sweet breeze off the rose bush, into a ceramic mug […]
A low fog lifts from the lake, catching the bungalows on the opposite shore dreaming like tree-houses. Mornings here are so nearly the same, a breeze scrolling to bright sun-wash, they’re practically a brand of New Hampshire, one featured in Classic New England Vacations. Just yesterday, we thought of boating. I enthused about canoes. You […]
i I’m surprised by purple crocuses on the way home and the farther I look the more they multiply a kind of secret reunion with family long lost, relatives whom I welcome in other forms because it’s Spring, and the weather is full of arrivals: I see you now, Grandfather – little storm gathering […]
Something shifts in that in-between November light– sends questions of color, cold and time through my body. The birds sleep. Am I mistaking morning for gloaming? Perhaps the other way around? Something in my lungs remembers: The leaves have fallen, snow is coming. I changed my clock. “Falling Back” first appeared in Winter […]
I walk to Library Park and watch the sun set. There are days of cold ahead. The oak is an etching— an outline, her twisted branches reaching like swollen broken fingers fighting the fracturing cold. The firmament blushes. Each figment of her bark recedes until she is but one stoic profile of complicated, […]